


Bring The Rain

by echoist



Category: Primeval
Genre: Episode Related, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-17
Updated: 2011-12-17
Packaged: 2017-10-27 10:52:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/295018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/echoist/pseuds/echoist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Episode fic for Primeval 5.01, in the tunnels near the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bring The Rain

 

It seemed like an eternity before Abby released Connor and backed away from where he had collapsed against the tunnel wall. Nearly had to force his way in, didn't he, with some ridiculous line like this was a fraternity party instead of a rescue mission. And that was right, wasn't it, no matter how many times Becker had to remind himself, it was the way things _should_ be, because Connor was Abby's now. Not his. Never had been.

“Let's slap a Mickey Mouse plaster on that, shall we?” and then Becker was leaning down, hands grasping at Connor's collar a little too frantically, arms wrapping around his shoulders and sliding beneath. Just a friendly gesture. Just offering support.

It's what he did, Becker thought. Connor had him pegged with one throwaway comment. He was the one ready to blow everything to holy hell at a word, you could depend on him for that, if nothing else. Figured, though, didn't it, that when Command finally realised they'd got their heads jammed up their collective arses, this was the job they asked him to do. _Ordered_ him to do, thanks very much, Matthew, or else he wouldn't have done. How's that for justice? Oh, you want live rounds? You want to bomb something back to the stone age? Well, here's your first target. Cheers.

And he'd pressed the button, knowing Connor was inside, knowing he might not be clear. He'd held Abby back from running straight into the building, when that was precisely what he wanted to do, himself. More and more these days, it seemed like his job was to leave the heroics to someone else, someone more likely to get the job done, as he was too busy following orders. Because his hand belonged on the trigger, regulation distance away. Because he couldn't be trusted to get it right, up close.

No I in team, soldier, Becker reminded himself, his internal monologue gone angry and humorless. Connor was feverishly warm, pressed against his side, fingers gripping his shoulder tight and _at least_ , he thought, _at least this is something I can still do_. I can still be strong enough for the both of us.

They'd reached the frozen escalators, and Connor was still, regarding them as though they might as well be Everest. His head lolled against Becker's arm, defeated, and Becker's breath caught in his throat. Connor smelled of blood and sweat – of panic - and Becker wanted to take him home and wash him clean. “C'mon then,” he whispered. “One step at a time. You can – you can lean on me all you need.”

“Always have done,” Connor replied with a short laugh, voice low and hoarse. The air in the passage was dense, thick with a choking dust and the smell of vaporised gas and Becker wished more than anything that those words were true.

“Take your time,” Becker told him, his arm tight against Connor's waist for support. When they reached daylight, Becker knew, he would have to give Connor back to her. To Abby, who seemed to have hung behind to speak with Matt in hushed tones, too low for the comms to pick up. Becker would wonder about that, really he would - except that Connor's breath was coming in soft, tiny gasps and maybe they should just stop here for a moment. Halfway up to the street, halfway between disaster and daylight and all that waited for them in the world above. Not quite anywhere, just yet. Just lean back against the railing, just let Connor rest his head against Becker's chest in the darkness, like it belonged there as well as it fit. Just let them both catch their breath.

“It's no need to rush.” Becker added, unable to keep the silence unspoiled. _I'll be here_.

Connor made an answering sound, pulling himself up as though Becker were some sort of ladder, the fabric of his shirt rumpled in Connor's fists. Becker's right hand hung in the air, an inch from where it had been about to tangle in Connor's hair, as though he had any right.

“Can't stand around here all day,” Connor murmured, turning his face up toward the light. Away from the rubble and the darkness and the terrible, unguarded expression on Becker's face. Away from disaster.

“Right,” Becker answered, falling back in line, back on duty. “Up we go, then,” and slipped his arm around Connor's back, as a teammate might. One step at a time. Inch by inch. Back to the way things were.


End file.
